Glamour

by Sierra Simone, Skye Warren, Aleatha Romig, Nicola Rendell, Sophie Jordan, Nora Flite, AL Jackson, Lili St Germain

  Cold and damp.

  So cold.

  She huddled closer, tighter within herself, her knees at her chest as she hugged her arms nearer. Heat was the element she craved, yet her body was without.

  Every muscle ached as if she’d been maintaining this position for too long. It wasn’t only her arms and legs that hurt; her stomach also cried out. Its need wasn’t for warmth but for food. Audible grumblings of hunger echoed off the empty walls.

  Where was she and why was she cold and hungry?

  Blindly she reached for a blanket, a sheet, anything. Her cool fingertips met a scratchy surface.

  Crash! The sound of reality and dreams smashing together.

  Natalie’s eyes squeezed tighter as memories appeared behind her lids. If she didn’t look—didn’t see—perhaps nothing would be real. Yet in her heart, she knew that she hadn’t dreamt or even had a nightmare. The deep ache in her bruised thigh confirmed the reality—flashes of recollections on the plane, in the car, and in a room—she’d lived it.

  Her eyes sprang open as she quickly scooted to a sitting position. Her knees still pressed against her breasts, and her arms now hugged her legs. She moved across the rough bedding until her back collided with something hard. Behind her, at the side of the bed where she’d slept, was a cool painted concrete wall. Like the mattress where she’d lain, its texture scratched her skin.

  Her skin.

  Natalie ran her palm over her bare leg, one and then the other, both. Goose bumps peppered her body, not only her legs but her arms and torso too. Her nipples beaded. Everything—all of her skin, of her body—was exposed. Her clothes were gone.

  Her teeth chattered and body trembled as she unsuccessfully fought the urge to cry. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real.

  As occurs in dim light, her eyes adjusted, allowing her prison to materialize.

  There wasn’t much to see.

  The same dull white walls, four of them, created a box—perhaps more of a rectangle than a square. The ceiling was high and painted the same white as the walls, devoid of color. She searched for a light or even a bare bulb. The dimmed illumination that allowed her to see didn’t come from electricity but from a narrow strip of glass high upon one wall. It was a window, but not one that would open. Even if it did, it was too high to reach and too small for her to fit through. As she stared, the distortions in the pane caught her attention. The glass was reinforced and leaded, the kind of window found in renovated ancient castles to keep invaders out or prisoners in.

  The only interruptions in the sameness of the walls were two doorways. One was covered with a solid wooden door, closed and painted to match the monotony of the room. She didn’t need to check to see if it were locked. The absence of a handle told her that it only opened from the other side. The other doorway appeared open, simply a frame with no door.

  A quick flash.

  She blinked.

  Had she imagined it? She scanned each surface, searching for its source.

  Again.

  It didn’t last longer than a millisecond.

  Like the walls, the tiny flash was devoid of color, so quick and insignificant that if she blinked at the same second, she would have missed it. Shivering upon the makeshift bed, she waited and counted.

  Twenty-two seconds.

  If the room were brighter, she wouldn’t have noticed it. Nevertheless, she did.

  She counted again.

  Twenty-two seconds later, it flashed again.

  The flash came from a small knob fitted snuggly into the window sill. Well disguised, it could pass for a blemish in the trim. However, imperfections didn’t flash. It was a camera and meant that she was being watched.

  Another person may not have known, but Natalie grew up with surveillance as part of her life. It hadn’t bothered her before. Then again, before, she’d been clothed.

  She was now sitting. She couldn’t pretend to still be asleep. Her empty stomach twisted. Dexter would know she was awake. Would he be coming to her? Was he asleep? What time was it?

  Did she dare look in the other room?

  Again, her stomach complained.

  She clawed at the bed in the dimness, hoping for a blanket, sheet, or even the mattress covering, something in which to wrap her body. But there was nothing, only a cot with a single scratchy mattress.

  Turning from the window—from the camera—she used her arms and hands to cover her breasts and core. It wasn’t much, as she hurried toward the open doorway.

  Once within, she fumbled along the wall for a switch and in the air for a string. Nat found none. This room was darker with no window, only the dim light trickling in from the room with the bed.

  As her eyes continued to adapt, the second room came into focus: a simple yet efficient bathroom. Everything was white, reflecting light and helping her see. Straight ahead upon a pedestal was a sink, to one side, a toilet, and to the other side, an old iron clawfoot tub. Above the tub, mounted on the wall was a showerhead. Reaching in the darkness, she searched for a curtain, one to contain the shower’s spray.

  Rings rattled upon a track, higher than her head, but the curtain was gone. Natalie sunk to her knees and crawled about the cold floor, searching for towels, a robe, or anything. Back on her feet, her hands splayed over the walls. An empty towel bar beside the toilet and an empty hook near the doorway were all she found.

  Thankfully, there was toilet paper, but it would take the entire roll to cover her, and then what if he wouldn’t replace it?

  How could she even rationalize his thoughts? These were the doings of a madman. She wasn’t crazy. He was.

  Again, her stomach grumbled.

  Did he plan on starving her?

  Natalie reached for the handle on the sink. Air and moisture sputtered, and then water began flowing. Using her hands, she cupped the cold liquid and brought it to her lips. The stench of sulfur filling her nose was worse than the musty aroma of her cement cell. Without drinking, she opened her hands and allowed the water to splash into the sink and disappear down the drain.

  Perhaps at least, she could make it warm. That would help.

  There were two handles. Natalie turned the handle on the left of the faucet as far as it would turn. As she waited for the temperature to change, she took care of other business. Her hand stilled as she began to wipe.

  Had he touched her…there? Obviously, he’d taken her clothes. Had he raped her?

  Memories were fuzzy at best. She recalled floating or being carried. Though she was cold—chilled to the bone—and her muscles ached from trying to keep herself warm—too long rigid and contracted—she didn’t feel injured or sullied beyond her nakedness.

  When she’d boarded the plane to Nice, Natalie had been a virgin. Surely, she’d know if she weren’t any longer.

  Forgetting about the camera, she carried the toilet paper into the light and sighed. There was no blood. She’d heard there would be blood.

  Natalie wasn’t completely without sexual knowledge. She’d dated boys in Iowa. They’d kissed and petted, but even with the biggest football star, she had a figurative wall around her, protecting her from going too far. No one dared be the boy to look her father in the eye after taking her virginity.

  At Harvard, it was different, yet the same. Though her father’s reputation held no boundaries, it was Natalie who didn’t want to cross that line. It was she who didn’t want to face not only her father but also her mother until the man who earned her hymen was also the one who earned her heart.

  Some would consider it old-fashioned.

  Maybe it was seeing her parents’ devotion to one another. She wanted what they had. They’d overcome more obstacles than she even knew, and through it all, they loved one another unconditionally. They had the kind of love that survived life’s trials and came out stronger.

  Tears returned. Will she ever see her parents again? Can their marriage survive the tragedy of losing their daughter?

  The ache in her chest gre
w larger, bubbling out with an audible sob.

  Throwing the toilet paper in the water, she grabbed another piece and wiped her eyes. As it all swirled in the darkness and disappeared down the drain, she straightened her neck. She would survive this ordeal. Somehow, some way, she’d make it back to them.

  Reaching for the running water, she expected heat. The reality was a few degrees above ice, reawakening her chill. Beside the handle was a small bar of soap. As she washed her hands, she turned off the one handle and tried the other.

  A buzz or whistle sounded—shrill yet short. Had it come from the pipes? Natalie tried to listen, to hear it again. Like the light of the camera, would it recur?

  With each passing second, the sound stayed away; only her beating heart thumped in her ears. However, to her delight, the water warmed. To her cooled skin, the liquid heat was heaven. On any other day, in any other place, combined with the stench, it would be unacceptable. Today, in this hell, the slight rise in temperature was the best thing she’d found. Forgetting everything else, she stood still, allowing the warmth to run through her fingers and return her circulation. As her hands warmed, she splashed some on her face. Even though she couldn’t dry it, the water took away something—cleansed her as well as restoring something, bringing her back a small sense of normalcy.

  When the warmth began to fade and she turned off the faucet, a shadow passed over her, chilling her skin. Was it simply a figurative cold to the loss of her warmed water? Had she imagined it?

  Though there was no mirror above the sink—only more wall, the same as the rest—she lifted her face. Even without the reflection, Natalie knew. Standing taller, she braced herself as the hairs on her bare skin came to attention like small soldiers ready to fight.

  What she’d endured so far was only the prelude. The battle was about to begin.

  “Turn around, bug. We have rules to discuss.”

  Chapter Eight

  Of all the animals, man is the only one that is cruel. He is the only one that inflicts pain for the pleasure of doing it.

  ~ Mark Twain

  Dexter’s command hung in the musty air.

  Paralyzing fear: it’s mentioned in books and seen in movies. A thing of fiction until it was real…so real that even blinking seemed impossible. Involuntary movement commenced. The trembling from earlier returned, causing Natalie’s hands to visibly shake. It was when her knees began to knock that she managed to reach out to the sink, an anchor to keep her from falling.

  “Rule number one…” His tenor slowed. “I don’t repeat myself.”

  Natalie had never been fully nude in front of a man—even those she’d dated. She wasn’t a prude; she was merely twenty.

  “May…” Her voice cracked, the word stuck in her throat, barely a croak. She cleared her throat, still facing the wall as her fingers gripped the edge of the sink. “Please, may I have something to wear?”

  His shoes upon the cool, hard floor echoed, each step reverberating louder and louder as he came nearer. When he stopped, she looked down. On either side of her bare feet were shoes—boots with rounded toes. She thought they were the same ones he’d worn on the plane, but she couldn’t be sure.

  His body, merely inches behind her, radiated warmth, the temperature she craved. Yet his proximity did little to reassure her.

  Dexter’s hands moved up and down, feathering her arms, a conduit of electricity springing the small hairs to life, similar to the effect of rubbing a balloon. “You’re cold.”

  It wasn’t a question. There was no sympathy to his statement. It simply was.

  “Yes.”

  He leaned closer. His coffee-flavored breath reawakened her hunger while also caressing her neck and shoulder in warmth. “Tell me, bug, how you can get warm.”

  Each word weighed a ton until her head dropped forward, unable to bear the load. Tears filled her eyes. “I-I don’t know what you want.”

  Dexter took a step back. “Rule number two. Disobedience will always be punished. If I tell you to turn, turn. If I tell you to answer me, answer me.”

  Her shoulders quaked. If there were a door on the bathroom, she’d close it. It wouldn’t really be an escape, but it would give her space. And then she realized…the door. The one he entered.

  Quickly she spun and raced forward. As soon as she neared the barrier, she saw the error of her ways. She was naked in the better lit room, and the door was shut, locked, still with no way to be opened. However, that couldn’t be true. Dexter was with her. He wouldn’t lock himself in, would he?

  “You have a great ass,” he said, running a hand over her skin. “Show me what else I want to see.”

  “Don’t, please.” Natalie shook her head. “You saw me—everything. You had to see. Who took off my clothes?”

  He barely touched her shoulder, encouraging her to turn.

  Flinching away, she spun, her loose hair landing upon her shoulders. With a steely expression, she faced him. What difference did it make? He’d obviously undressed her.

  Silence prevailed as only his eyes moved up and down her body. Like his touch, his gaze was fire—a scalding hot poker raking her skin. Finally, he spoke. “Legs shoulder-width apart.”

  Her eyes squinted in the dim light, as if seeing him clearer would give meaning to his words. “What?”

  Dexter lunged forward.

  Natalie gasped.

  His hard body stopped inches away from hers as her chin became locked in his iron grip. Pulling her gaze to his, he said, “I’m running out of patience.” The ocean of his eyes was deep and murky. “I’ve waited for you to wake. I’ve waited for you to turn and show me what’s mine. I won’t wait again. Don’t ask me to repeat myself. You heard my instructions.”

  When he didn’t release her chin, she slowly repositioned her feet, moving one and then the other.

  “Hands at your sides, palms away from your thighs.”

  She had reached up to his hold upon her chin, trying unsuccessfully to loosen his grip. It took conscious effort to make her hands obey, to untangle her grasp from his, lower her arms, and turn her palms out.

  “Shoulders back and breasts out.” He made a show of stepping back and admiring her breasts. “I like them. They’re not large, but oh, the possibilities are limitless.”

  Her eyes closed.

  When he released her chin, it began to fall forward.

  “No.” He lifted it. “You’re a proud woman. I don’t intend to change that.”

  She audibly exhaled at the absurdity of his statement.

  Dexter grabbed her hair and yanked it backward, causing her to wince. “Don’t do that. Don’t make assumptions. Don’t assume that I’m debasing you to make you less. When this part of our journey is complete, you’ll be more than you ever imagined.” Releasing her hair, he took a step back.

  “Before I entered this room there was a noise, a buzzing sound. Did you hear it?”

  “Yes.” She’d thought it was the pipes.

  “When you hear that sound…” He tapped the floor with the toe of his boot. “…you’ll stand here, facing the door, offering yourself.” His gaze narrowed. “Do you need me to make an X?”

  “No.” She wanted to make an X—on his chest and use it as a bull’s-eye.

  “You’ll stand as you are right now. Legs parted so I can see your pretty pussy. Chest out, so I can watch your nipples bead. Hands at your side, surrendering yourself to me, and most importantly, your shoulders back and chin high. Do you know why?”

  A tear fell from her eye. “No.”

  He stepped closer, caressing her jawline as he’d done on the plane. “Because you may be my bug, my Nat, but you’re no one else’s. You’re a queen, no longer your daddy’s spoiled princess. A queen who’ll learn to appreciate the spoils of life. That understanding will give you a regal comprehension that others will see and respect.” His smile widened. “And a queen bows to only one person.” He walked around her, daring her to move from the position. One circle and then another.
“Tell me, my queen, to whom do you bow?”

  The answer was obvious; it was right there. But Dexter Smithers wasn’t her king. He never would be.

  When she didn’t answer, he pushed her down, commanding her new position. “On your knees.”

  The concrete floor bit into her knees. She fell forward, her hands extended, when all at once her head was yanked back by a fistful of her hair.

  “No. Get off your hands. You aren’t crawling, not this time. Kneeling is like standing, only lower. You’ll assume the correct position.”

  The tears fell faster. “I don’t know—”

  Crouching down on his haunches, he secured her head back until their gazes focused upon only one another. “Have you knelt before another man?”

  “No.” The word was choked with tears of both pain and humiliation.

  “Never put a cock in your mouth?”

  She shook her head. “No.” More tears.

  “That’s it, bug…” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, tasting the salty emotion. “…you saved the tears for me. I’m expecting many more.” He licked his lips. “They’re so good. Now, as with standing, knees spread…” He released her hair and using the toe of his boot eased her legs apart. “Back straight, sit back on your heels with your toes as your support.”

  Without instructions, she rested her arms at her side and turned her palms up.

  “Very good. Now tell me, which is a more comfortable position, standing or kneeling?”

  She swallowed. “Standing. The floor is hard.”

  “You didn’t turn when I told you. Where will you be the next time I enter?”

  “Standing where you said…” Her heart ached, but the words came easily. “…how you said.”

  Dexter nodded. “Good girl, but no. In the future, but not next time.”

  Her eyes opened wide.

  “I promised you punishment. This is it. You’ll remain as you are.” He looked up at the window, at the camera. “You already know that I can watch you. Don’t move, shift, or so much as readjust your pretty pink pussy. If you do, your next punishment will be worse, and the next one even worse, until it’s your blood I’m tasting instead of your tears.”